


Stop and Restart

by Fiendfyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendfyre/pseuds/Fiendfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade doesn't see Mycroft's black town car often, but five times in two weeks is unprecedented and he is not as stupid as Sherlock thinks he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop and Restart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duchesscloverly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=duchesscloverly).



It wasn’t unusual for Gregory Lestrade to finish work at the Yard after midnight but stumbling out of the doors at noon after a 37 and a half hour shift was, while not unprecedented, a little unusual. Even more unusual was the person who greeted him at the door. Lestrade knew Sherlock’s brother well enough, they weren’t friends but there wasn’t any particular animosity between them either. They had worked well together the few times their jurisdictions had overlapped on cases, but Lestrade knew surprisingly little about Mycroft as a person. He did, however, know that Mycroft was the busiest person he’d ever met, so his sudden appearance in the middle of a weekday did not bode well for Lestrade’s plan of sleeping for the next 24 hours.

Lestrade ran a hand through his unwashed hair and winced when he felt the oiliness on his palm, painfully aware that not only had he not showered in a good two days but the air-conditioning unit in his office had broke the day before and it had been one of the hottest days on record. He wasn’t the kind of person who worried overly much about their appearance, he never had been, but Mycroft was so put together and crisply clean that Lestrade always felt vaguely dirty around him. It had been several years since he’d met the man but the appeal and initial attraction Lestrade had felt in their first meeting hadn’t faded. It remained in the back of his mind a soft hum of awareness whenever the man was near but he had long ago given up any hope of reciprocation. 

This tingling awareness didn’t mean he followed Mycroft’s orders, there was no power imbalance between them because Mycroft had nothing to hold over his head and Lestrade didn’t respond to threats or blackmail, which is probably why he’d lasted so long as Sherlock’s sort-of-friend and Mycroft’s not-friend-but-trusted-acquaintance. If Mycroft wanted something from him he had to ask and Lestrade could say no, he’d said no before and Mycroft hadn’t pushed. 

From the way Sherlock talked about his brother it seemed as though Mycroft was an entirely autocratic dictator who demanded things and never took no for an answer, but Lestrade had personally found him to be reasonable and unfailingly polite, if a little emotionally distant. Mycroft had failed to scare him when they first met and hadn’t attempted any further creepy phone calls or unexplained kidnappings since, which he appreciated. There had been a few instances of what could be considered kidnappings, but he was always given a choice and, aside from the first time, he had never felt unsafe in Mycroft’s company.

“What can I do for you, Mycroft?” Lestrade asked wearily. Mycroft was, as usual, attired in a bespoke suit complete with pocket watch and omnipresent umbrella but his tie was a little brighter than usual, a nice emerald green silk piece that Lestrade badly wanted to stroke. Mycroft was also wearing a matching pocket square and Lestrade could see emerald cufflinks peeking out from his under his jacket sleeves. He looked businesslike in the general sense of the word, but for Mycroft’s usual standards he seemed positively casual. It didn’t make much sense for Lestrade to think that, but in his experience with Mycroft the man had always worn dark colours, sometimes a bit of deep red, but mostly darker blues that seemed to make him more imposing and more forgettable than ever. This Mycroft was in no way forgettable.

After a minute or so Lestrade realised that he had been staring so intently, and rather obviously, that he’d missed Mycroft’s answer to his question. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Christ. Sorry, I missed that completely. It’s been a long day,” he apologised quickly.

Mycroft gently laughed, it wasn’t mocking and Lestrade didn’t get the impression that Mycroft was laughing at him at all, and for some reason he felt instantly comfortable despite the way he’d made a fool of himself only seconds before.

“I should have called ahead,” he replied, “I only wished to discuss my brother with you, as he has taken on a case that I believe to be quite dangerous, but I had not thought to check your schedule. That was unforgivably rude, I apologise, Detective Inspector.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” he waved a hand vaguely, “if I hadn’t had such a shitty week I would be happy to discuss your brother over coffee or something, but as it is I’m in no shape to help him with any cases. Not without at least 4 hours sleep. If you’re overly concerned I can have Dimmock check on him, he’s a competent DI and a personal friend of mine.”

“Perhaps it is not as urgent as I thought,” Mycroft replied, looking oddly uncomfortable, “but his last few cases did not end well. Perhaps I am being overprotective and a little paranoid.”

“If there’s precedence I wouldn’t call it paranoia,” he replied with a soft smile, “he does get into a lot of trouble more often than I’d like. If you’re sure it can wait I promise I’ll check on him tonight, once I’ve slept.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“A while. I did get a bit of a power nap around 2am.”

“I am so sorry to bother you,” Mycroft looked genuinely contrite “let me take you home.”

“Well if you have the time I won’t say no. I’d probably fall asleep on the tube and miss my station.”

Mycroft led Lestrade to the car with the ghost of steadying hand on his lower back and opened the door for him. Lestrade sighed contentedly when he sank into the soft leather seats and inhaled the mixed scents of upholstery, leather and something that he could only describe as ‘Mycroft’ and dimly noted that the car must be Mycroft’s personal town car. The tinted windows blocked out most of the painfully bright midday sun and cool air blew onto his heated face from the air-conditioning vents. He was so out of it that he barely noticed as Mycroft got in to the car and quietly ordered the driver to take them to Lestrade’s address.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Mycroft just smiled and handed him a blessedly cold bottle of mineral water. The bubbles made sure that he didn’t drink it too quickly and also helped clear his mind a little.

“Feeling better?” Mycroft gently asked after a few minutes silence with nothing but the steady whirring of the air-conditioning and the smooth hum of the car’s movement.

“Yeah, thanks again,” he said, turning to look at Mycroft, “the bloody temperature control at the yard broke yesterday and I spent half the afternoon yesterday chasing a suspect around the back alleys of London. It’s England. It’s not meant to be so bloody hot.”

“It has been unseasonably warm this summer,” he agreed, “fortunately I spend very little time outside my office or my home, although I do miss my morning walks, it is far too hot for that sort of thing.”

Lestrade hummed in agreement and drank some more water before he spoke, “I should run but I really don’t like it, I have to do enough running at work. I like to take my bike out, though.”

“I’m fairly certain that a motorcycle is not an effective form of exercise.”

“Push bike,” he clarified, “cycling. It’s a lot quicker than walking or running.”

“I haven’t cycled in a very long time, I’ll admit I prefer to drive, even in London.”

“It is certainly more comfortable,” he agreed.

The car stopped outside his building, in a no stopping zone, and Lestrade half stumbled out of the car while he shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand.

“Take care, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft called from inside the car.

“Thanks, I’ll go see Sherlock tonight, make sure he’s okay.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade nodded and slowly made his way up three flights of stairs cursing himself for not choosing a newer apartment, one with a lift. When he finally got into his apartment he wasted no time ripping off his clothes and jumping into a cold shower. He washed his hair carefully and dried off in front of the fan before he sprawled, naked and still overheated, onto his bed and slept.

*************

When he woke his mouth was dry and his head was pounding, it was ridiculously confusing for about a minute because it was dark outside, he was naked and at first he didn’t remember how he got home. He stumbled to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water gripping the edge of the sink with both hands for a moment until his brain had rebooted properly. He quickly checked his phone while he searched his flat for a clean pair of pants. It was only just 6pm so he took his time dressing and walked to the tube station rather than calling a cab.

When he arrived at Baker Street the shrill sound of an abused violin told him that Sherlock was home, and not happy. He stepped into the flat and heard the sharp crunch of glass beneath his shoe. The floor was covered in shards of glass and a clear blue liquid that smelt more than a little alarming.

“Sherlock?” He called out sternly, speaking loudly to be heard over the screeching of the violin, “Is this corrosive?”

Sherlock didn’t stop sawing the bow across the strings and he didn’t turn around but he did say, “No. What are you doing here?”

“Mycroft asked me to look in on you, said you had a case that might be within my jurisdiction. Where’s John.”

“On a date,” Sherlock snarled as he begun to play louder.

“Ah. Well why don’t you tell me about this case?”

“It was the brother, obviously,” he snapped, “barely worth my attention!”

“What did the brother do?”

“Killed his sister with a teaspoon and sold her organs on the black market.”

“Really?” 

“No! That would have been _interesting_ ,” Sherlock shouted over the violin’s noise, “He stabbed his sister with a pairing knife and her husband came to me because she was ‘missing’. She was buried in the back garden for goodness sake!”

“Right…” he said slowly, “and have you reported this to the authorities?”

“I called you, but you didn’t answer. I had to speak with that moron Dimmock.”

“He’s not a moron, he’s just a little new at being a Detective Inspector. You do realise that it is meant to be an administrative position for the most part? Paperwork and organising officers, going to the occasional crime scene when required, it’s not his job to chase suspects for you.”

“That’s what you do,” Sherlock said accusingly.

“Yes, but I’ve never quite figured out how to put my officers in danger that I won’t put myself in. I take a more active role in my investigations than most DIs, more than I should. Doesn’t leave much time for sleep when you factor in paperwork as well.”

Sherlock only huffed in response, but he did stop making noise with the violin and turned to face Lestrade.

“You look awful,” he said flatly, “a 38 hour day and you didn’t call me for help?”

“37 and a half, actually,” he corrected with a smirk, “besides, it wasn’t an interesting case. Someone killed someone else and then ran away. It was a search and apprehend kind of case, nothing interesting enough to ask for your help.”

“And did you apprehend?”

“Yeah, and I finished all the preliminary paperwork too.”

“As we’ve established I do not need your help and you do not need mine why are you still in my flat?”

Lestrade didn’t really want to stay and talk to Sherlock, not when he was in such a bad mood, but he didn’t want Sherlock to stay alone and brood while John was out so he said the first thing that came into his head.

“I wanted to ask you about your brother,” as soon as he said it he knew it was a bad idea. Giving any small amount of information to Sherlock, especially in asking a leading question like that, was like taunting a carnivorous animal.

“My brother,” Sherlock repeated flatly. “My brother Mycroft.”

“Do you have another brother?”

“Probably,” he replied lifting a shoulder carelessly, “my father wasn’t known for his fidelity.”

Lestrade coughed, “Well I was talking about your brother Mycroft. Obviously.”

“Why?”

“Well I’ve known him for years, you see, but I don’t really know anything about him. He helped me out this morning with something and I wanted to say thank you but I don’t know what he likes.”

Sherlock stared at him and Lestrade resisted the urge to fidget under the assessing gaze and ducked into the kitchen to grab a roll of paper towels and a dustpan to sweep up the glass on the floor.

“He likes many things, and very few people,” he said eventually.

“Well that wasn’t at all cryptic, thanks Sherlock,” he muttered sarcastically.

“Ties, good tailoring, the colours green and blue, figure skating, cake decorating and volleyball.”

“Cake decorating?”

Sherlock shrugged, “he made my birthday cake when I turned 5.”

“He did? And you didn’t delete it?”

“Why would I? It wasn’t an unpleasant memory,” Sherlock snapped. He tended to get snippy and defensive when he revealed personal information or talked in any way of feelings or emotions.

“What did the cake look like?”

Sherlock looked vaguely uncomfortable but stiffly replied, “Pirate Ship.”

Lestrade grinned but didn’t tease as he finished wiping up the suspicious blue liquid and put the glass shards in the bin, “Nice. Well I’m not sure I can use any of that to think of anything to do for him.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t deserve anything. He never does anything out of the kindness of his heart.”

“Maybe not, but I appreciated it anyway.”

Sherlock scoffed but paused when he heard the front door open and John’s distinctive footfalls coming up the stairs.

“That girl was just about the most uninteresting person I have ever met!” He exclaimed angrily, “oh, hey Greg.”

“Hi John. I take it that the date did not go well.”

“Not so much, no. What are you doing here? Has there been a murder?” he asked looking a little too eager at the prospect.

“No, just finished a case this morning. Mycroft asked me to come and check up on you guys.”

“Oh,” John said awkwardly, “we hardly need a babysitter, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock’s case ended up with the apprehending of a murderer and that happens to be my job, John. I’m not trying to spy on you guys, Mycroft wouldn’t ask me to do that and even if he did I wouldn’t say yes.”

“You can’t exactly say no to Mycroft Holmes.”

“Sure you can, it’s fairly easy really. Same as saying no to anyone else.”

“I’ve tried that, he doesn’t take ‘no’ well,” John said a little bitterly.

“That hasn’t been my experience at all,” Lestrade replied, confused.

“Must be because of Sherlock, he’s always asking me to do things for Sherlock’s safety and all that.”

“Perhaps. Well, now that I know you’re both okay I’d best be going. I haven’t had enough sleep these past few days. I think I need to pass out for approximately 12 hours before I feel even remotely human again.”

John gave him a sympathetic look, “take care, mate.”

“Thanks, you too.”

*************

Fortunately for Lestrade, and the rest of his team, nothing came up that night so they were all able to get a solid 12 hours of sleep. Of course the next day was almost as busy and stressful as Lestrade was due in court to give evidence in a fairly high profile murder case. It was a depressing, violent case and it had been difficult to prove, and even more difficult to prove beyond reasonable doubt. By the time he had been examined and cross-examined he felt wrung out and overexposed. His eyes were tired and itchy and he was desperate for a cigarette or a large cup of coffee, preferably both.

When he returned to his office the pile of paperwork that had been down to four forms was more than a foot high. He felt like crying but took a deep breath and sat down heavily on his chair pulling the first form towards him. He worked through what felt like thousands of forms, health and safety, requisition forms and case related paperwork blurred into each other as he read everything and signed his name again and again.

A soft knock on his door pulled him out of the nightmarish loop of read, sign, initial, initial, file and repeat. He looked up to see Mycroft’s scarily competent Personal Assistant, Anthea.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector,” she said pleasantly, “Mr Holmes is here to discuss his brother.”

“Two kidnappings in as many days?”

She smirked, “We prefer to call it a retrieval.”

“Well I am past ready to be retrieved,” he replied, relieved, as he threw down his pen, grabbed his suit jacket and phone and followed closely behind her brisk stride.

“I can see that, sir,” she said with a smirk when the reached the bank of elevators.

He laughed and followed her down to the street where the same town car was idling at the curb. Anthea got into the drivers seat and Lestrade slid into his usual spot on the left hand side of the backseat. The partition soundproofed the entire backseat but he could see her shadow through the smoky glass as she put on her seatbelt and pulled out into traffic. He turned to look at Mycroft, who was wearing his usual suit and dark tie combination; Lestrade wasn’t sure why that disappointed him. Mycroft smiled and handed him a box of nicotine patches and a plastic takeaway cup full of iced coffee.

“I took the time to check your schedule today, I thought perhaps you’d appreciate one or both of these things.”

“You are a genius, Mycroft!” Lestrade exclaimed happily as he ripped into the package and slapped a patch on his forearm. He paused and sipped the cool drink before he continued, “I checked in on your brother last night, he was uninjured and the case had been handled by Dimmock while I slept. I really am sorry I couldn’t help but I could barely see straight let alone conduct an investigation and interrogation.”

“If I had known you had been so busy I would not have asked it of you, Detective Inspector Dimmock was an adequate replacement under the circumstances. I am not concerned about my brother physical wellbeing, rather his emotional wellbeing.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said knowingly, “John.”

Mycroft nodded, “My brother doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way. He likes it even less when he believes people are abandoning him,” Mycroft looked away and his hand fiddled with his tie.

“He wasn’t happy when I arrived,” Lestrade replied, “really not happy. He was torturing the violin.”

Mycroft winced, “That is not good.”

“I know you’re worried, and you have right to be considering his history, but I can fairly confidently tell you that he is not in danger of slipping back into drug abuse. Not anymore. John’s disapproval is enough to stop that impulse in its tracks,” Lestrade winced at his unintentionally apt choice of words.

The tightness around Mycroft’s eyes seemed to ease just a little, “I trust your judgement on the matter, Detective Inspector. However…”

“You’re still worried. I understand, Mycroft. I’ll look out for the signs, I promise.”

“I’m unsure how to handle the situation. I’m not sure how Sherlock feels.”

“He isn’t sure either. Let him know his own mind before you attempt to interfere. He doesn’t do well when you do that,” Lestrade advised. 

“That much is certainly true,” he replied softly.

Lestrade wanted desperately to tell Mycroft that Sherlock cared, but he wasn’t sure if it was his place to do so. Instead he said nothing.

“Thank you for taking time to speak with me,” Mycroft said eventually.

“I was going insane with paperwork anyway, it’s not a problem. I’m happy to talk, anytime.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector. Aside from John you are the best person to ask about these sorts of things, my brother isn’t exactly forthcoming and sometimes John can be less than helpful.”

Lestrade didn’t think it was his place to point out that Mycroft didn’t make himself approachable for John, if their previous conversation was to be believed. He was fully aware that he was a business acquaintance for Mycroft, not a friend, and that meant he had to follow the unspoken rules that they had both been obeying for years. Unless it was about Sherlock they never really spoke about emotional or personal matters, Mycroft never forced him to do anything and Lestrade never leveraged his acquaintance with Mycroft for political gain in his career. It had worked well for them.

“Whatever the circumstances I’m glad I can help,” he eventually replied.

Mycroft nodded and Lestrade looked out the window and absent-mindedly drank his coffee. He was too tired to make small talk, and Mycroft seemed content to leave the conversation there, although he was tapping his fingertips on his knee in a way that made him seem uncomfortable. Still he made no attempt to fill the silence. 

It was only after Lestrade had showered and climbed into bed that he realised how strange the entire situation had been. Of course he had realised from the start that more than one meeting with Mycroft in a week, not case related when Sherlock wasn’t injured or missing, was strange but he hadn’t realised how strange it was. In the past when Mycroft had been concerned about his brother he would call because a ‘retrieval’ was reserved for more serious matters. A ‘retrieval’ had occurred on only 5 separate occasions in as many years, his first meeting with Mycroft (in the middle of a park at 3:34am. In the rain), when Sherlock had overdosed, when Sherlock had been stabbed, When Sherlock had been kidnapped and lastly after John Watson had shot a serial killer in the head. And then suddenly two in one week, with no indication of bodily harm or emotional trauma that was more than a little strange. It was completely unprecedented. 

Lestrade might not have been a genius but he was more intelligent than the average person- and he was a little embarrassed that it had taken him this long to see how odd it was, but he allowed himself some leeway considering the sleep deprivation- but he had people skills to spare and, as a police officer, made a habit of evaluating motives. He didn’t have enough information to discover what motivation Mycroft may have had for his odd series of ‘retrievals’ but he had a few ideas, some more plausible in his mind than others.

1\. Mycroft really was worried about Sherlock and John, their relationship and his brother’s mental state. It was possible that Mycroft thought Sherlock could be incredibly self-destructive if his friendship with John disintegrated. It was a valid fear, and it made sense.

2\. Mycroft was lonely. He had several problems with that particular hypothesis considering that Mycroft was wealthy, successful, well spoken and charming (when he wanted to be), it seemed unlikely that he was without companionship. 

3\. Mycroft was playing some sort of game with him. While Lestrade knew that Secret Service agents enjoyed pranking the rank and file law enforcement he wasn’t convinced that Mycroft would be that petty.

4\. Mycroft was trying to ‘get to know’ Lestrade. What really didn’t make sense about that possibility was the timing. Why would he suddenly decide he wanted to be Lestrade’s friend, and/or lover, when he’d had five years to do so and never had?

Luckily for Lestrade it was fairly easy to figure out which option it was (as unlikely as some of them were). If it was the first than Mycroft would be silent as usual until something happened with Sherlock or John, which would leave at least a month because John didn’t tend to date for a while after such a spectacularly unsuccessful evening. If the second or the fourth (or a combination of the two) he would be in contact regularly with increasingly vague excuses and if the third…well he’d find out soon enough.

*************

He fell asleep and dreamed that he was a puppet on emerald strings looking up at a giant Mycroft who was sipping tea with one hand and controlling him with the other. It was probably more disturbing for Lestrade than it should have been as he jolted awake with an unexpected adrenaline high. He tried not to examine what exactly had scared him so much but while he was showering off the sweat he couldn’t help but think it had something to do with control. Control and power. He had always hated feeling powerless, especially after his father had fucked off when his young mother was pregnant with his brother leaving Lestrade, 8 years old and nowhere near old enough to fully understand, let alone help his mother through, the combined pains of pregnancy and heartbreak. 

In all relationships, friendships included, there was a certain level of trust involved, one that required a relinquishing of control that Lestrade had never found easy. He didn’t make friends easily, but once he did he didn’t let them go easily either and it was similar for his romantic relationships. His mother said he was steadfast and his brother said he was loyal, like a pet dog or a naïve child. Despite the occasional tactless comment his brother was a good man, and an even better judge of character. Lestrade took no small amount of pride from knowing that he had raised his brother well. Mark was a dentist and had married a wonderful woman named Abby and lived with their two equally wonderful children in their perfect house in Manchester. He was proud of his brother, but it did at times feel as though he was the less successful, lonely and slightly pathetic older brother.

The days following were hectic enough that he had forgotten about Mycroft’s odd behaviour by the time Friday night rolled around. It was just after 6pm when he finished work and he was walking to the tube in the warm summer night when the black car came around the corner and stopped at the curb next to him. He mentally crossed off possibility #1 because he knew for a fact that Sherlock was happily experimenting on the torso of an unfortunate cadaver that he had commandeered from Molly. When he got in the car he was tempted to ask straight out what Mycroft wanted from him, but a defensive Mycroft was dangerous and he was too tired to argue.

“Good evening Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said pleasantly, “may I offer you a ride home?”

“Sure,” he replied tiredly, “is Sherlock in trouble?”

“Oh no, he’s perfectly well, I daresay he’s even happy. I’m afraid today it is more work related.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I understand you attended an apparent suicide this morning, I must request you look closer into the case, and possibly contact Sherlock.”

“The medical examiner ruled that case a murder about 25 minutes ago, we’re waiting on forensic reports from the scene and the others are canvasing the area for witnesses. I also sent in a request for security camera footage from the area about an hour ago but they informed me it would take at least 12 hours for the footage to be ready.”

While Mycroft often asked him to take on certain cases or gave advice on current cases if they were somehow important to an investigation of his he usually did that by phone or visited Lestrade’s office when it was particularly complex. Lestrade was suspicious of Mycroft’s motivations and, having crossed off #1 was concerned about the outcome. He didn’t know what Mycroft’s end game in this situation was and he hated not having enough information to form a theory.

Mycroft blinked and moved his hand to smooth out invisible wrinkles in his tie. His cyan blue tie. Lestrade admired the colour, and it’s affect on Mycroft’s eyes, and idly wondered if Mycroft had gotten his colours done or if he instinctively knew those kinds of things without professional help. 

“I was not attempting to question your investigative abilities, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said awkwardly.

“I know that, it’s fine Mycroft. In fact, if the secret service has an interest in this case that might speed up the footage and forensics, which I would greatly appreciate.”

Mycroft looked almost eager, an expression that Lestrade found powerfully strange and absolutely adorable, and quickly said, “of course!”

Lestrade grinned, “Thanks. So was the victim one of yours?”

Mycroft shook his head, “we had surveillance on the victims wife, I’m afraid I cannot tell you why, and we have reason to believe she is the one responsible. If she were to be charged with murder we would be free to investigate without fear that she would leave the country and we may be able to find her associates.”

“Okay, good. I’ll do my job once those results have come through. We’ll see if we can get some evidence tying her to the scene.”

“Thank you, those tapes will be in your inbox as soon as you get in to the Yard tomorrow morning.”

Lestrade yawned and rubbed his tired eyes as he blinked out at the heavy traffic.

Mycroft looked out his window briefly but turned back to look at Lestrade. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. A minute later he spoke, “it has continued to be unseasonably warm.”

Lestrade slowly turned to look at him. It felt wrong, somehow, to have Mycroft Holmes initiating small talk. He noted how uncomfortable Mycroft looked and cautiously crossed #3 off the list.

“It has, luckily I’ve been stuck in the office rather than chasing down suspects for most of this week.”

“I hope they fixed the temperature controls in your office.”

Lestrade smiled, “they did.”

The satisfied look that quickly crossed Mycroft’s features confused Lestrade for a moment, until he realised that Mycroft must have had something to do with the quick maintenance. That stunned him, and made #4 seem more and more likely. Lestrade’s phone blipped quietly before they could continue the conversation and he shot Mycroft an apologetic look but checked the message anyway. It was from his brother.

_Hey Greg, Liam won first prize for his story in the local school district’s Creative Writing competition!_

He quickly replied

_That’s great! Tell him I say congrats. How’s Sam?_

_Good. She’s heading off to university soon so Abby and I are busy helping her pack and trying not to cry. I don’t see why she can’t just go to Manchester University._

_Because she wants to be a doctor, and if you want to be a doctor and can get into Edinburg you go there._

_Damn. It’s just so far away._

_It really isn’t. I’ve got a couple of friends in the police force over there, she’ll be safe there and they invented phones and skype for a reason._

_Yeah, yeah. Call us on Sunday._

_Will do._

“Sorry,” he said as soon as he had finished the conversation, “it was my brother. I have a niece and a nephew and I was just getting an update on them.”

“Are they well?”

“Yes. The eldest is 18 now, she’s moving to Scotland to attend the University of Edinburgh and the younger is 15 and he writes for the school blog. They’re good kids.”

“Are you close with your brother?” he asked. Lestrade couldn’t help but see the underlying question there, which was _“are you a better brother than I am?”_

“I helped raise him. My mum was always at work, and as a single parent she did a great job I’m not saying otherwise but she worked two jobs and spent the rest of the time sleeping. I cooked and cleaned and taught him to ride a bike. I love him, but it’s good that he’s in Manchester. We clash a lot, he likes everything to be ordered and perfect all the time and I just… don’t. It’s not that I don’t like order, but I deal with the messy, the dangerous and the disorderly all the time and I can deal with it. He can’t deal with a dirty cup on the bench and sometimes I get called into work and don’t go home for days. He would have a fit if he saw my fridge after four days at the yard.”

“I never had to parent Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, “people often assume that I did, because of the age difference, but my mother was an excellent parent. My father was an absent-minded genius and not a faithful husband, but he was a caring enough father when he found the time away from his experiments. He taught Sherlock to be a scientist. They shielded him from the taunts of his peers and he was happy back then. They died when he turned 18, just before he was due to leave for university. He could have stayed with me in London, but he wanted to go to Cambridge so he did. If I had known how they would treat him I would never have let him leave. He couldn’t handle the grief and the taunts together and within months he was an addict.”

Lestrade reached over and lightly squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently, “and your brother has got himself a good career and a good friend who doesn’t mock him. You’re a good brother when you’re not being overprotective.”

Mycroft smiled, “it worked well enough. I weeded out the weak, the insecure and the greedy.”

Lestrade chuckled, “True enough. Just… let him live his life now. He’s strong enough to deal with it on his own for a while, be there if he needs you but don’t force your help onto him when he doesn’t want it.”

“I’m trying to do so,” Mycroft replied, looking away.

“I know. You’re a good man,” he replied very softly, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder once more before he let go.

“Are you looking forward to the football?”

“The football?” he asked incredulously, “you follow football?”

Mycroft fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch, “no.”

“Neither do I,” Lestrade said with a short laugh, “My brother thinks it’s blasphemy that I don’t. He’s a Manchester United fan. I just never got into it. We didn’t have a telly at home until I was well into my teens and I never had the time. The players seem a little…wimpy to me. I mean they call foul every time someone touches them. I do watch the Rugby, sometimes, which is much more violent. I’m afraid I also think cricket is deadly dull. So you see, I am a terrible Englishman.”

Mycroft laughed, “I put the cricket on when I can’t sleep. Works very well.”

Lestrade found that more amusing than he should have, “you can’t have that getting out or they’d fire you on the spot for unpatriotic behaviour.”

“They just might. This country takes sport very seriously.”

Lestrade grinned. Mycroft Holmes was _flirting_ with him. Actually flirting. He didn’t think he was misreading the situation, and Mycroft wasn’t being very subtle about it. As a politician/diplomat/spy one might expect him to be a very suave and smooth flirter, and maybe he was when he was acting but when he was being sincere he was adorably flustered and awkward. Although to an outsider Lestrade supposed that Mycroft’s behaviour wasn’t overly flirtatious or awkward, but to someone who knew him it was obvious. 

They arrived at his flat, after a long conversation during the traffic jam that covered topics ranging from football to the political situation in Syria that lost all its awkwardness after a while. It was almost like a date. When Mycroft walked him to the outer door of his building Lestrade fully expected Mycroft to ask him on a date, a proper one, but Mycroft just awkwardly gripped Lestrade’s upper arm, squeezed once, and walked back to his car. Lestrade stood there for a moment, as if waiting for Mycroft to turn around and come back to ask him out, but Mycroft didn’t turn around once and the black car drove away with Mycroft inside.

Lestrade took the stairs to his flat, feeling very confused and a little hurt. He was sure that he hadn’t misinterpreted the situation and went through the conversation in his head to see if he said something offensive or obnoxious. After a good half hour of contemplation in the shower (it really was the best place for thinking) he concluded that Mycroft was just testing the waters to see if Lestrade was interested. He was sure that the next time they met Mycroft would extend an invitation for a date, he would just have to be a little more obvious about his personal views on the matter.

*************

Lestrade flopped onto his bed, bouncing once before he settled into the soft sheets, and groaned. Mycroft had ‘retrieved’ him again, a scant two days after their last encounter, to discuss the outcome of the case Lestrade had closed with Mycroft’s help. It was grounds for a phone call, definitely, but it was a real stretch to engineer a kidnapping- sorry a retrieval- based solely on that. They had gone to a café -Mycroft had green tea and Lestrade had strong black coffee- and briefly discussed the case before they moved on to other topics. The case related conversation couldn’t have been more than a minute long. They discussed their weeks at work, Mycroft telling hilarious anecdotes about incompetent secret service agents and Lestrade telling funny stories about the odd things he’d seen on cases. They talked of hobbies and interests, Mycroft admitting his love of figure skating and Lestrade admitting his reluctant love of Japanese pop music. But at the end of the afternoon Mycroft walked away without a kiss or a question leaving Lestrade behind, confused and vaguely hurt.

There were two more pseudo-dates that followed the same formula (vague excuse for kidnapping, brief discussion of work/case/Sherlock, then long discussions about everything ranging from politics to religion to the weather in Portugal and capped off with an abandoned Lestrade) before Lestrade snapped. He wasn’t the type to wait around for someone else to make a move, especially when he knew that Mycroft was interested but either too nervous or too shy to do anything about it. He was also a planner. When wooing his ex-wife he had planned each date meticulously, even when it seemed like a spur of the moment thing, and researched the best places to go and the most interesting things to do. It had been a long time since he’d been on a date, more than 2 years since his divorce had finalised and even longer since he’d set up a proper date, so he felt a little out of practice. He was determined to make it the best first-date ever, and the initial awkwardness would be bypassed entirely thanks to their infuriating pseudo-dates. 

Thanks in part to Sherlock but mostly due to their conversations during the non-dates Lestrade had a good idea of the things that Mycroft enjoyed and he knew a good place to start. He also had some allies he could call on to make it happen the way he wanted it to. Mycroft’s competent, terrifying assistant Anthea was his first choice of co-conspirator and a quick text message was enough to get her on board with the plan.

So Lestrade waited, less than patiently, at a small French restaurant nestled between two high-rise apartment buildings that was owned by friends of his late mother who owed him a favour from more than 20 years prior. He had booked the entire restaurant, including the kitchen and spent no less than 6 hours cooking. He had raised his brother, so he knew how to cook edible food, in fact he was rather proud of his skills in the kitchen. The restaurant may have been French but he wasn’t a big fan of French food in general, it tended to be too heavy and rely too heavily on cream and garlic, so he had decided to make Moroccan food. He made a lamb and date tagine on a bed of couscous, a lentil and pumpkin stew and a small side salad. Moroccan was the kind of food that impressed easily but was simple to make, if you had the time. He opened a bottle of robust red wine to let it breathe as soon as Anthea texted him to give an ETA of 10 minutes.

When Mycroft walked distractedly through the door Lestrade was sitting comfortably, with the food in covered containers on the table in front of him. Mycroft was looking at his phone with a frown on his face, and spoke without looking up.

“What is so urgent, Carson? You were assigned my brother’s protection detail, not babysitting duties for a toddler, you cannot possibly have something else to complain about,” he snapped. Mycroft’s command voice did odd things to Lestrade, things that he didn’t want to explore at that moment because he was trying to be romantic and spontaneous not horny and trashy.

“I’m sorry, were you busy?” he asked innocently.

Mycroft’s head snapped up, “Detective Inspector! I-I didn’t see you there!” he stammered, obviously caught off guard. Lestrade saw Mycroft study their surroundings and smirked when Mycroft’s eyes widened in his moment of realisation.

“I’d apologise for the subterfuge, but I rather enjoyed it,” Lestrade said with a cheeky grin, “it didn’t look like you were going to make a proper move any time soon, so I took initiative. I hope you like Moroccan food.”

“Lestrade, what is this?” he gestured at the room.

“This,” Lestrade said firmly, “is a date.”

Mycroft’s hand twitched and he looked at Lestrade with indecision in his eyes.

“I’m being perfectly serious, Mycroft,” he added.

“Are you?”

“Yes. Look, you’ve been dancing around the issue for more than two weeks; you didn’t think I’d notice your frequency of ‘retrievals’ increased exponentially? You didn’t think I’d notice that we talked less and less about work and Sherlock? I’m not an idiot.”

“I was… waiting for the right moment,” he said with flushed cheeks. Gregory Lestrade had made Mycroft Holmes blush and Lestrade was more than a little proud of that.

“Well I didn’t want to wait,” he replied gently, “so please sit down so I can pour you some wine and dazzle you with my sparkling conversation and passable kitchen skills.”

Mycroft seemed to relax completely in a single second, and he sat, “What have you cooked?”

“Lamb tagine, lentil stew, cuscus, salad,” he listed, as he suddenly felt oddly shy.

“Well it smells divine, and in fact I missed lunch today because of a minor crisis in cabinet.”

“Well then I won’t delay your dinner any further,” he replied and served out the dishes as artfully as he could. He finished it off with a sprig of coriander and sat back. They looked at each other for a moment, both waiting for the other to start eating first, before they simultaneously took up their cutlery and started to eat.

Mycroft complimented the food and the choice of wine briefly, but sincerely, before they moved on to other topics. They talked just as easily on their real date as they had on their previous not-dates and they both laughed freely. When their feet touched under the table Lestrade grinned and trapped both Mycroft’s legs between his own, the point of contact making him far happier than it should have. They talked for hours and it was well after 10 when they were in a lull of conversation long enough for dessert. Instead of going to the kitchen to fetch dessert Lestrade got up, took Mycroft’s hand and pulled him to his feet then led him into the kitchen where two plain vanilla cakes were waiting along with several covered bowls and strange utensils. There was a set of pink modelling tools and brushes and moulds of varying shapes and sizes.

“Okay, so I may have asked your brother what you enjoyed doing a while back, and he mentioned that you liked cake decorating. Apparently he had a pirate ship birthday cake when he was 5. So I thought it would be fun to decorate our own dessert, I’m too full to eat any but I’m sure our offices would appreciate it.”

Mycroft grinned, “He told you about that?”

“Yeah, and when I asked him why he hadn’t removed it from his mind palace he said ‘why would I? It isn’t an unpleasant memory’”

Mycroft looked both ecstatic and a little sad, but Lestrade didn’t ask. He understood the expression for what it was. Nostalgia.

“Well he remembers correctly, I do love cake decorating. Even more than I like consuming the cakes. Do you have any experience?”

“I looked it up online, but I’m not very creative so you’ll have to teach me.”

First they covered each cake in fondant, one in green the other in blue. The first casualty was Mycroft’s suit jacket, which was covered in a green handprint courtesy of Lestrade. Mycroft retaliated with a blue streak on Lestrade’s best white shirt but they both calmed down after that and focused on their respective cakes. Once Lestrade had the basics down he was able to do it without help from Mycroft, and moved to the other side of the kitchen so it would be a surprise. They maintained a conversation despite the distraction of creating and the banter was just as easy when they weren’t paying close attention to what they were saying.

When it came time for the big reveal Lestrade was fairly proud of his first attempt. The cake was adorned with a black umbrella with a wooden handle, the shape simple, but effective. He deflated a little when he saw Mycroft’s complex creation, he had crafted a perfect replica of the London Police coat of arms, but his reaction to Lestrade’s creation rekindled his pride.

Mycroft laughed for a good five minutes and pulled Lestrade into a spontaneous soft kiss and pulled away before Lestrade could deepen it, but didn’t go far as he rested his forehead on Lestrade’s, “thank you. This was a wonderful idea.”

“I’m glad you think so”

“Would you like to do this again sometime?” Mycroft asked confidently, his mouth tantalisingly close in a messy kitchen while they were both covered in slightly sticky sugar. It was sort of perfect.

There was only one thing Lestrade could say to that.

“Finally!”

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written based on an amazing prompt by the equally amazing duchesscloverly, who never received her Summer Exchange gift. I know it's late, but I hope you like it Duchess! I had a lot of fun writing it and it is actually my favourite story I've ever written, thanks Duchess!
> 
> The original prompt was _"Mycroft keeps 'kidnapping' Lestrade to talk about cases and Sherlock but Lestrade realizes what is really going on and is waiting for Mycroft to just ask him out. After two weeks of this Lestrade turns the tables and (most likely with help from Anthea) has Mycrofts driver divert him to a warehouse or something with dinner all set up because enough is enough."_
> 
> All my thanks to my wonderful sister, ArchisZera, for editing and coming up with the perfect title and refurinn for being the best friend I've ever had.


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